Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/598

 582 FLORUS B. PLIMPTON. [1850-60. THE OAK. Grandly apart the giant monarch stands, All reverend with lichens, looking down A green declivity on pastoral lands, And hazy church-spires in the distant town. When parching suns the scented fields em- brown, And all the waysides choke with dust and heat, Beneath the shadow of his regal crown Fair maids and lusty youth at eve re- treat, To dance the hours away with lightly- twinkling feet. When, to the singing of the early birds, Spring bursts in blossoms from the south- ern sky. And scornful of the stall, the lowing herds In pastures green delight to graze and lie ; When milk-white doves to mossy gables fly- Heaven filled with song, earth with sweet utterings, And winds through odorous vales blow pleasantly. Its thousand boughs seem bursting into wings. Silken and smooth, and green, and full of flutterings. Among thick drapery of green its nest The dormouse builds, and there the robins sing Till Evening sets her roses in the west. On topmost boughs the chattering squirrels SAving, And round its twigs the spiders spin and cling Their gauzy nets ; there too the beetles creep To hide in shaggy cells, where wood-ticks rins Their raid-watch bells while weary mor- tals sleep — What time, 'tis said, the elves their mystic revels keep. Here, ancients say, his royal brothers stood ; But none remains — the giant stands alone, The gracious lord of the pi'imeval wood. The hoary monarch of an heirless throne. Here, when the summer's glory gilds its own. And day dims dying in the purple air. The angels come and wake each heavenly tone That floats around and fondly lingers there — A worldless song of praise from murmur- ing lips of prayer. Or when capricious Autumn dyes with hues Crimson, and brown, and gold, this forest Lear, And spangles of the hoar-frost and the dews Like countless brilliants flash afar and near The gorgeous state he keeps ; and cold and clear. The subtle arrows of quick -quivering light With luster tip the leaves now crisp and sear. Then seems that oak th' enchantment of the night, A splendor of weird spells, a cheat upon the sight ! But most 'tis kingly when the laboring woods With gusty winds and darkening tempests roar, And crash the thunders of the seethhig floods That snow their white foam on the wreck- ing shore ;